La Realité de Cordelia
by Lil Leggy
Summary: <html><head></head>Cordelia has been held in Baskerville for nearly a decade, kept by scientists who deemed it necessary due to her immense brain power. Now freed by a certain Mycroft Holmes, she discovers that she isn't as alone as she thought she was. Mycroft deems her safest with someone who is similar and as anti-social as she is, and she is moved into 221C. How will John cope with two Sherlocks?</html>


Chapter One

Disclaimer : I own nothing. Sherlock Holmes is the character of Arthur Conan Doyle, and Sherlock the series is the property of the BBC.

"_When I'm gone…when I'm gone…"_

Delia looked around the bland room. Not the best room, but bland was good. Bland was calm, bland was chilled. Bland meant her head was quiet. She reached over and turned up the volume on her ipod dock, to the highest it would go.

"_You're gonna miss me when I'm gone…when I'm gone…you're gonna miss me by my walk, you're gonna miss me by my talk, oh you're gonna miss me when I'm gone_."

Music was the only way that her head was able to be quiet these days. Nearly ten years in Baskerville, and that place had ruined her head. She remembered humming in a dark room, before the humming turned into screams from whatever experiment was going on that particular day. Quickly backing off from that train of thought, she pondered her new home. A certain Mr Holmes had assured her that she would be safe here, that she would be protected, and that the horrors of Baskerville could be forgotten.

She didn't believe him.

Sherlock was in his mind palace. Currently holed up in the room where chemical modules were kept, he flicked through the properties of magnesium and zinc before the sounds of an irritating song about cups filtered through his mental walls.

"For God's sake!" he grumbled as he sat up from his position on the coffee table. Not particularly comfortable but he simply didn't care. Discomfort wasn't an issue when he was in his mind palace anyway. Idiotic brother for disturbing him.

"You never were one for conventional uses of furniture, were you little brother?" Mycroft Holmes' amused voice came from the corner of the living room, where Sherlock's armchair was located.

And the bugger was sitting in it.

"What do you want, Mycroft. I haven't the time nor the energy to play along with you today." Sherlock actually didn't have anything to do that day, John was on what he called a 'day off,' and had promptly left the flat at nine, and hadn't returned. It was now five in the evening.

"I have a job for you."

"Not interested."

"You will be, considering that she is like us." That got Sherlock's attention, and he didn't miss the fact that Mycroft's voice lowered in pitch, when he reached the end of his sentence, signalling a personal touch to the offered 'job.'

"Who is this she?"

"Evening," came a female voice from the doorway, "She would be me, and she has a name. Perhaps you would be as good as to us it, hm?" The young woman was tall, not as tall as either of the Holmes brothers, but for a woman, she was tall. She was pale, and auburn haired. A single green eye gleamed at Sherlock, whilst the other was covered by a silky black eyepatch. She looked old, in some way, her green eye showing that although she had the face of a young woman, she had seen more than a young one should ever see.

"Delia," Mycroft's voice was disapproving, "take off the eye-patch."

"Why should I. What is underneath has a tendency to terrify people." Her voice was a clipped monotone. She was stating simple fact, and she knew it. Sherlock was intrigued. She was showing no emotional attachment to whatever was underneath her eye-patch, which could mean two things. She had come to terms with it, and didn't dwell on it, or she was over compensating in an attempt to cover up the fact that she was nowhere near over the ordeal of whatever was underneath the eye patch.

"Cordelia."

"Don't play games with me, Mycroft Holmes. You know who I am. You know it wont work, even for you." Evidently she was having none of Mycroft's games. "You are not my father, nor my brother. If you were, even you would have had the humanity to decide to place me somewhere other than that…_shithole. _Don't you dare try to give a 'persuasive' tone on your voice_, you little shit." _

Sherlock's liking for this woman raised significantly at her verbally ripping Mycroft a new one. If he carried on, Sherlock didn't doubt that this woman could probably do that literally too.

"Evidently brother," he drawled, "the lady does not want you anywhere near her. Ta ta." The hint was not lost on Mycroft.

"Sherlock."

"Mycroft, you complain of the surrounding world being goldfish, but it seems you are closely resembling one at this moment in time. Leave. Now." Sherlock's voice brooked no argument. He wanted to know more about this woman, after not being able to deduce very much about her himself. Mycroft, no longer able to avoid the direct order from his younger brother, decided to cut his losses and leave. Let Sherlock deal with the woman. He had taken too much time away anyway, it wasn't wise to be away from the office for too long, not with the French elections so close. And the matter of the latest royal scandal.

"Miss Brookridges, my apologies, but I must be off. Good day." Mycroft stood up, nodded at the both of them, swept up his umbrella and promptly left through the kitchen door.

That left two.

Sherlock placed both his hand together and raised them so they rested on his lips and against his nose, and he sat there, merely taking note of the woman in front of him. Traumatised, evidently, however she was quickly getting over it. Or at least trying to.

"Mr Holmes, I do suggest that you stop any attempt to deduce me."

"Why."

"Because I spent ten years being deduced in Baskerville."

"Baskerville?" Sherlock was intrigued. True, the research centre had a dubious reputation but nothing to do with human experimentation.

"If you want to know more, particularly about the eye-patch, I strongly suggest you put the kettle on. It is a long story, and a strenuous one."

With that, Sherlock got up and walked through into the kitchen. He placed water in the kettle, placed it to boil, and prepared two mugs with sugar, the entire time his mind whirring around what the eye-patch could symbolise. Had she lost the eye? Something happened to it so that she could not see out of it?

The kettle finished boiling and he poured the water into the two mugs, added milk and swiftly took them into the living room, handing one to the young woman, and then making himself comfortable in his armchair, attempting to get the shape of Mycroft out of it. Once content, he looked at Cordelia.

She sighed and slipped the eye-patch off.


End file.
